Vladimir Nabokov. La Veneciana
Vladimir Nabokov. LA VENEZIANA
"To hell with the bridge!" said the Colonel. This was his second miss, and the veins swelled on his forehead in an irate vee.
The chauffeur, who had been banging around with some buckets by the garage gates, yanked off his checkered cap upon seeing his master. He was a short, stocky man with a cropped yellow mustache.
"Morning, sir," he said amiably and pushed open one of the gates with his shoulder. In the petrol-and-leather-scented penumbra glimmered an enormous, black, brand-new Rolls-Royce.
"And now let us take a walk in the park," s